I Lived

When death gently whispers into your ears and the feeling sends shivers down the spine, it is as if he wished you luck and sent you back to the much neglected, maligned lap of life, perhaps to let you cherish and bless this life with your dreams and desires. His voice reminds you how melodious is the sound of your heart and you wish fervently to get one last chance to listen to that beautiful voice and give a form to its wishes.

Death peeks from round the bend and your eyes shall jolt open to realise what is the most essential part of your existence. He re-introduces you to love and takes it to a whole new level of fulfillment. For one last time, you would want to look into those deep, chestnut-coloured eyes and sing a quiet song of eternal divinity.

We all get a lot many chances to redesign our lives. Near death experiences just add an extra nudge to take us from being "nearly alive" to rejoicing this short experience called LIFE. 

I am glad I lived to tell the tale yet another day....

Forgotten Pages

It rained the whole day. The dust was wiped away from the face of this ruthless city. Trees appear green, the earth seems appeased. Then what is the restlessness that arises within? it is like a gradually developing cyclone, sucking me into it. The lightening lit the evening sky and flashed across the memory space inside my head. Images and more images came hoarding the void, as if it was raining long forgotten excerpts from my life. 

I sat in one corner collecting these random moments and compiling them in a dusty file cover. "Did I have a good life till now?" No adequate reply comes to my mind. Twists and turns and straight highways, I have been on almost all terrains. The journey shall continue, show me the days, nights and twilights of various realms. I am a traveller, I am aware of that. Yet, a stopover is sought where the heart can get a good night's sleep. Else the quest is one.

Another such evening may come when this evening would be neatly folded and preserved between the yellow, tattered pages of an old, forgotten novel and my mind.

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Night as I Know It

Sleepless and dreaming. I dream of those who are burning the midnight oil, those who are attending calls to appease frantic queries from across the seas and shores, the souls who have to stay awake lest they miss the breaking news, the guardians of our safety and sovereignty who patrol relentlessly, the dwellers under the open sky who manage to grab sleep despite heavy vehicles zooming past their narrow pavements; that one mind which awakens to the quest of creative pursuits and pens down the last few lines of her book, the song writer who shall not rest before he fixes his broken song, those eyes behind the glasses aligning his designs to enhance his aesthetic masterpiece. 

The peace of sleep caresses the ones who are her favourite; they hum tender snores, their bodies at peace and preparing for the autumn morning to follow. 

I wander into the jungle, perhaps the wilderness has a different story to tell. Do the wild beasts sleep like us? I shall not know just now. But the mind spins its own fantastic tales, some of which I may use as bedtime stories for my young ones in the future (only if they would be fortunate enough to repose their faith in flights of fantasy and wonderland). 

The dark velvet texture of the night sky has left me spellbound each time my dreary, sleep-deprived eyes have braved to look upwards. The night has been the reason of zillion myths, beliefs, disbeliefs, secrets, conspiracies et al. Night is laden with infamy, it is equated with all that is ominous, it is painted in forbidden hues. Night sulks.

I take an unsure step to greet my night. It looks up, it smiles and it illuminates. Unlike the golden rays of the magnanimous Sun that blanket us in white light, here are the moody shades of the dark hours. It is subtle like the coy bride, translucent like the emotion of new lovers. Night is the poem of the unsung beings. 

She moves stealthily through our life each day and prefers to stay on the opposite shore. She covers our follies and gives us yet another chance to rejoin life. Night, well what more can I speak about you? When day decided to quit on me and nobody else thought it relevant to stand by my dreams, you walked up to me and gently soothed my agitated dilemma. You let me enjoy your emptiness, your silence and never judged me as I sat clueless and vague.

Life at night and that of night shall continue to intrigue me even and most often than not win the war against sleep. Today, is not her day though. Yet lovely lady, worry not. In many like me you have your steadfast lovers, your dogged companions.

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Tea Cup

The droplets create cacophony unbearable;

Disturbing the pensive quiet of her pain.

A moment ago the room was full of human odours;

Now the silence of absence just roars.

The chaos to bid adieu was sought to fill this gap awkward; 

The dirty tea cups decide never to let out the tales they overheard. 

The amber western sky paints the heart grey;

Existing outside and beyond them, to silence I have fallen prey.

We the Women

We girls live with an intense spirit that refuses to lie low for long. The docile woman behind the red veil smiles at me with the shine of stars in her eyes. The lone woman selling cigarettes at the traffic junction has a rather warm nod. The woman mason with a pile of bricks has the agility of a deer as she manouevers her way up the clumsy ladder. 

Nameless and fearless, she walks with me like my shadow. The lesser the light, the stronger she emerges. 

Let me stay inspired. Let me sing your songs. Let me share the colors of your life

The Three Dark Angels

The winter chill was setting in and so grew the shadow of an impending confrontation. Warily, I stared outside the glass door of the coffee shop waiting for that moment of realisation. It would be the first time I was to meet this person who was loaded with pre-conceived notions of me which were strategically fed to the unsuspecting good soul. We do not wish to be at the receiving end of hatred and I felt no different that evening. A fervent prayer was my sole companion. "Please give me the strength to bear whatever comes my way this day." 

My nervous trance was interrupted by persistent tapping on the glass door. There they danced just like raindrops falling in a puddle. Three tiny, sooty- faced, bronze-hair urchins gleefully knocked and screamed some of their urgent demands. "Khaana de do." (Give us food). It was rhythmic with an amusing musical intonation. 

I shifted my gaze to the young guy at the serving counter. He smiled back acknowledging the cuteness of the whole drama outside and in an unassuming manner whispered his compatriot to heat three samosas for the three devils glistening their pearly grins. 

By then I was enamoured as if they were three wizards brandishing their invisible wands. And I knew instantly what I needed to do. 

Next frame finds me standing outside the coffee shop along side the guy from the counter and the trio, who, by then had seated themselves in a neat order anticipating some mouth-watering snack, perhaps their first morsel of the day. And behold! What a well-behaved group at that! Patient and excited, hungry but not greedy. 

The samosas now adorned their tiny palms. They smiled the most astounding  piece of poetry I have experienced in recent past. However, it was my rude turn to interrupt their bites into freedom. "Yeh lo bacha. Lekin issey baad mein kholna hai", I remarked as I passed the packaged colorful frozen dessert around. They were a tad bit restless as they fixed the lids back into place after just one small look at the content within.  But in no time they were back to regaling me with tales of how the youngest among them was bullied into getting his ears pierced by his mother, to much embarrassment of the tiny tot. 

My heart felt feathery as if the weight of the anticipated meeting had lifted. The cafe guy was already back at his assigned desk, just a nod marked our short camaraderie. The little ones were too busy by now wrapping up their small meal. I look across the road. Two pairs of eyes are looking intently at me. I know one of the pairs; it forever shines with love and fondness. Yet, it was the other which took me by surprise. The eyes which were blindfolded to take a dislike for me the moment they land on me, showered a warm, benevolent ray of hope on me. Our eyes reciprocated the mystery they both shared in their private space; the joys derived from the usuals of life. Because it was just that road that separated two ordinary women that evening. 

The winter chill had set in and the three dark angels were nowhere to be seen. They orchestrated the anonymous relationship, the warmth of which thaws my torn soul still. Redemption may not be that elusive after all...

Story-telling

Mid way through one of my flights of fantasy a wandering thought broke my reverie. Do parents narrate those bed time tales to their toddlers anymore? Or are the little ones growing up so fast and responsive that now everything is a click away from them too? 

Are those stories soon to be long forgotten? The shrewd barber or the lying shepherd or the mountain troll who was fooled? Do the children still believe in magic or they know the obvious? 

What about those grand parents who would cajole a child to have his meal in exchange of a new tale? Would the sultry summer evenings never resound with astonished wows and ooohhhs from the munchkins who would marvel at how intelligent Gopal Bhar or Birbal is? 

The book stores display mouth watering goodies for children. There is a lot that technology has to offer them. 

Yet stories and narrating one is an art, a means to strengthen the parent-child bond. They listen when you speak, why not make that a journey they would love to embark upon, run their imagination wild and learn to love the fantasies for once before they join the reality bandwagon? Because believe me, when they will be the adults in times that shall be sharper than today, they would thank you for sharing the key to the Wonderland.

Once upon a time....it has it's own charm

Bird

Once upon a time there was a little birdie. She lived in a jungle tree and was content with her sweet little nest. One day as she flew by the village nearby, she was amazed by the houses men built. "Neat and near perfect", she marvelled. 

Next day the birdie set out on building a comfortable, roofed house for her self. "I will have one of my own very soon", she assured herself. 

Days, weeks, months flew by and yet her house was nowhere near completion. 

As she perched herself on a rock near the jungle rivulet one autumn morn, the reflection shocked her. Her amber feather was now a dull grey, their lustre all lost. 

As her tears created ripples in the water, she looked up at the sky above. 

The blue was her space, the winds her companion. She missed them terribly and longed to be back in that space.

"Why did I want four walls, when the wilderness is my solace?"

That day the birdie sailed past the layers of cool and nearly touched the Sun. 

The feather was amber once again, her straw strewn nest sang her a sweet lullaby as she embraced peace.

Words that Meant Nothing

There is so much to say and enough words to describe them. Nevertheless, I tremble to utter the first syllable with this overwhelming realisation that silence justifies it better. No flower has ever screamed out her passionate fragrance. It just hangs about nonchalantly. 

To you my love, I dedicate all that I have never explored in my labyrinth of emotions. You like a mystery, so let us together demystify the heart of a devout wanderer. For at your alter of love, lies the prayer of an alone dewdrop. Is it a tear that fled my eye? No one shall ever know, except the green smoothness of the leaf that held it. 

Rejoicing love when your shadow is far away. The whisper of the promise you made smoothens the fine lines on my brow. You say "look no further, I am you".

The Night

The silence of chaos brings peace to the rustling thoughts. The paints and colours float around searching for their pimp. There are no takers of the garish shades of my riotous speech this white evening. The brush counts its strokes and misses the math of hues mingling in the filthy tray of boredom. The sleeves are a tad longer and bear remnants of an euphoric evening dedicated to a box of pastels. 

The chilly winter moon looks out for a warm cover. Alas, she carelessly tied her mane to bundle her secrets. 

Nah, I won't paint tonight. Let the ends remain untied. Not all songs need a crescendo; a few fallen notes suffice one foggy midnight.

Temple and Winter

The temple bells rang and the drummer set the mood for the "Sandhya Aarti". The rhythmic beat of the drum, devotees almost in a transcendental space, the aroma of garlands, sandal and "dhoop", transported me to a new kind of awareness. As I stood there almost transfixed to the blue idol of "Maa Kali" silently sharing my wishes, a little nudge broke the spell. Two tiny, pudgy hands were holding onto the door latch, visibly restless since her parents were too busy modulating their material needs into a prayer most adults are guilty of. The 'holy' smoke did not interest her; the fluid hand gestures of the temple 'Purohit' did. She tapped her feet and swayed her waist, the cold marble floor warmed up to her innocence. 

Unable to contain a grin that was not well received by the stern looking lady draped in a white shawl by my side, I was now peeking at this little devil, my eyes semi-open. 

The "aarti" reached it's crescendo, heads were swaying heavily, almost intoxicated. The crowd was hurrying up to complete its quota of grievance call to the Divine. 

No one had bothered to care where the pint-sized brown girl had sauntered. I could see her open the lid of the brass vessel that held the holy water of Hindus, popularly called "Charanaamrit". One fist held the spoon and the other was open in anticipation of the sweet water. Spoon after spoon, she poured the magic potion on to her palm and slurped it. 

The drums, conch and bells reached the climax and at that same moment, in a swift move she lodged a spoonful of the fluid straight into her tiny mouth and with a quick look around to detect any prying adult eyes, she gleefully licked the spoon and dropped it back in the "kalash". 

As she regained her angel like composure, our eyes met and she knew that I had seen her. We grinned at each other and slowly walked away sharing a piece each of this divine secret and knowing so well that god's Charanaamrit was now her "mukhaamrit".

The temple had a new god for the first day of the new year. 

Winter is a funny story teller.

Meera

There he slides down the slope and towards the valley. Many more follow suit, yet none can defeat him. He tumbles, he fumbles, he halts to look around to see who is his closest competition. Not even a close second. He can smell victory, almost. The voyage resumes. The finish line is close, his heart beats quicker by the second. There is no stopping him now. And then he makes the final dash. Like a butterfly he flies off the edge. It is just the breeze of emancipation and his soul. No shackles. 

Meera was gazing skywards, lost in her evening reverie of curious tales. A cold jitter bursts open a series of familiar sensations. 

He was there, a glittering drop of rain on her porcelain cheek, the one who managed to get away from the silken smoothness of the car's silver body. He won. She applauded

It was raining the whole day.

April

The April breeze tickles my senses to awareness as the Sun makes a valiant effort to brush aside the pesky cloud. The green of the trees descends in my eyes as I make designs on the moist parapet wall. It was meant to be summer and yet the Sun is visibly lazy to blaze on. 

I am running a full marathon meandering through thoughts, ideas and memories and there is no easy respite. The answers hang boisterously as if they care not to appease the question. 

The familiar roads hum a new, pleasant song. The languorous Sun has given them reasons  aplenty to celebrate this Tuesday morning. 

My wanderlust is insatiable and yet today predictability of the familiar sights and space thrill my being to embrace the universe within with gratitude. 

Spring shots...

Walk Your Dreams

I feel as if I am walking through a dream. Moments come by when I see myself standing outside the dream and see it pass by. People, events, places and time; all seem to be living in their privy dreams. They mingle and they friction and at a certain point they disappear. 

That moment I find myself once again, alone yet bound, searching for that one essential thread that ties us to our wings of desire and quest. 

That moment when I sit gazing at the boundless sky and space and wonder how her search for the Divine is any different from his desire for means to achieve perfection. Isn't Divine perfect and perfection divine? 

I live like a dream for those who see me float by. Perhaps they imagine the day when our dreams would intersect and engrave their essence in each other. 

We were part of someone's dream decades back. Today we have a few more to fulfil. 

Dream on, create your world, live the life you dreamt of. You are blessed with the fire of imagination and eternal hope.

I Look for Me

The white soul flies around me, clouds help her to evade my sight. I am unable to breathe her in, she has dismantled her place from within me. Our song remains but in a few fragments now. 

My vision is obstructed, can only catch a few of her gleaming smiles. They show me the mirror. Each tear drop she shed had a story of each birth I took and every death I embraced. The breeze, the mist, the dew drop, the sweat, the fumes; they embrace me with a painful longing. She moves away, I chase her, yet my words create hurdles. 

Her innocence endears, beckons me, the passion within surges. She is the river I revisit each day when my mind meanders to my village. She is the tattered book on my shelf that buries clouds of tears which my unkind fingers dare not touch.

Why is the desire to abandon a welcome thought? It allures me like a lover, my heart overflows with dedicated passion for you. I do not know you, yet I respond to your call. I want to submit my being to you, bereft of all its ties and tendencies. You smile on me, I run to touch you, and like each time, you drop the curtain.

There you are and there she is. Are you one and can I be one with you? I do not fear losing, all I want is a place away from this place. Show me the way to create your space within myself. I  know you listen to no command or prayer, you would walk in to my life when you deem that necessary, till then, show me the way to dream of you.

She is runs across the grass patch, her anklet leaving a trail of dazzling notes, strung together with consciousness of you. She is infinite like the words crafted in the depth of silence. Like the lyrics embedded in the core of a note, she manifests herself like a tale of a lost land.

There I sit on the edge of horizon, absorbing the fusion of colors from the sea and sky sacrifice their ego and intermingle in a mystic embrace of submission. The clouds clear away and there I see you. You held her for me. Though she is a part of you and I am a weakling who may not be the best, you gift her to me. Coz you know more than anyone how much this blinded being needs the eyes to see You.

Ode to a Childhood Friend

Everytime I look at the empty television screen, I remember you dear buddy. The pig-tailed five year old girl with a missing tooth vehemently claiming "girls are better than boys", and you my friend, were wittier for a ten year old, raring to discard his shorts and embrace the long pants. 

The television is now "full HD" and each home has one too many, unlike the years when we would scramble into a neighbour's home that would house the lone B&W TV set to watch Lord Rama shoot magical arrows at Raavan's army. You would be there, leader of the crazy kids' group, the junior vagabonds who were mercilessly honest and outright supportive of a friend who may have been spanked for stealing a few mangoes from the nearby orchard. 

The coloured images flicker on the screen, the clock by my bed stead reads 3:00 am, and I cannot help but remember your beautiful face, the aquiline nose, the kind eyes that dreamt artistic dreams. 

I do not remember the last time we met; all that pops up is the image of the fine gentleman you had grown into. Yet always so kind, benign and oh so intelligent.

Another decade passes by and one day I am informed you left. Gone, just like that. An end, mere thought of which makes me break within. I wish I was there. I heard the "nice small town folks" abandoned you in your final journey. Nobody showed up to hold your tired, crestfallen father. 

You left us buddy, you are away from the steely chill of human apathy. You have taken your sunshine to another realm, well that's what I presume. Well, we will no longer receive the warmth of your love and benevolence. 

Yes, it is dreaded, yes it kills. So does hatred, unreasonable fear. Like a black hole, I am consumed by my own thoughts. It is a void that is seeking answers though I know there aren't any. 

How could they defile your death just because it was AIDS and emanate stigma that multitude of HIV  and AIDS victims are fighting against besides battling the disease? Yes, you could discard his being, yet you would never diminish the glorious light of his soul. 

The mist settles on the blades of grass,  soon to dissolve in the soil beneath. The moon is about to set. On a dreamless night, I just wish you could for once admit "Indeed, girls are better than boys", just one last time.

The Orange Lipstick

In a strange space today. Old memories swarm creating fractured imageries. All too real to believe. Why can't I have a day or even a moment when there is no choice to make? The daily ritual of being torn apart by decisions. I dislike options and yet tied to them. Can I not opt out of options? Shadows scare me no more, plethora of recourses do. Freedom from all this is all I seek. 

And then she asks me,  "So what is it that you are wishing for right now?" It reeks of possibilities to choose. 

"A nice orange lipstick is all I can think of". But then who decides the perfect shade????

When I Was No More a Writer

It rained last night. The trees are green and the roads appear grey. There isnt much that has changed. The reds,  yellows, violets lay strewn announcing their obeisance to the weather gods. I look ahead where the lanes converge in a Triveni. I may choose any which way to continue my walk. I walk back. I want to write about the art of nature. There I am, spacing myself out on the ruins of what may have been once a concrete bench laid outside the palatial house of a medicine baron. The notepad awaits the pain of ink tattooing its way through the sheets. 

Images have lost their shadow and words have defused their sting. I shed waterless tears. I forgot how to write. 

The rain washed away my strife.

Random

Today I drove to the railway station, parked my car near the gate that read 'Exit' and waited, not sure why. Despite that I was there. There they were, reflections of each other and still strangers. They walked, hurried, ran, trudged, gawked and occasionally shot me perplexed looks. I sat there, motionless, somewhat like a sniper. The cars sped past, avoiding close brushes with public buses. The taxi cabs were the notorious one, refusing to move in one smooth motion. They sought passengers, the last few chapters of the journey completed. 

The myriad sounds floated around like the impertinent kids in kindergarten. A few minutes into the wait, the noise is now a symphony of quirky emotions created by the sea of humanity. There was the impatient honk, the timid ring of the cycle rickshaw, the desperation of the motorcycle. The garbled human voices rose and ebbed as they vaporised with distancing steps. 

A part of me sought solitude for years now. They say one can be lonely in a crowd. I have my misgivings for loneliness. Never could separate myself from the thought spurts in my head and hence never fathomed loneliness. Or perhaps I am not intuitive to gauge it.  

Today I was alone amidst the bustling public place. The sounds and sights embraced me, they  cocooned me and atlast I could let go the contortions within. A crazy idea to park at a busy juncture had no special meaning and I retrieved my meaningless self from the claustrophobia purpose created.

The Unclutter Room

Dedicated to Sharmistha Kar. I learnt the right use of bathroom from you sister. Miss you. Will be with you soon. Miss New York.

Is there a particular space in your home that is clandestine? Not that it is physically hidden; it is the relation you share with those four walls and a ceiling that is undercover.

I have one such stealth area. I call it my “Unclutter Room”. No, it is not the storing space or my tiny library-sorts replica. It is, in fact, my bathroom. The toilet seat is the coveted “hot seat”,, whether I attend a nature’s call or just indulge in self muttering. 

Yes, as I adorn that porcelain perch, more often than not I run a mental PPT of my present, past and in all likelihood my tomorrow. Well, it is your tomorrow too, but that’s another story for another day. Images from the past appear cloud-free and crystal clear while those from the present are like “breaking news”. They bombard me with queries to which I seldom have an answer. When I do, I grin or let out a clownish giggle. Am I crazy or constipated, you may wonder, given the amount of time this whole exercise consumes? Like I specified at the very onset, you could find me there even when it’s not a biological necessity. 

Today when my present yet again appeared like a maze of twisted alleys, I sat there wondering why do I do what I do in there? Well, to say the least I like uncluttering my head. Have you ever felt that your brain spins at this insane speed and churns out thoughts, images, possibilities and fears that may not be a part of your reality? I suffer from this intense mobilization of my grey cells that are relentless and very often excruciating. No, I do not intend to proclaim myself as a genius, just saying I have an overactive and over reactive brain. Hence the daily spring-cleaning is crucial for my façade of sanity.

In the mind-boggling times we live, we are often thrown off guard by people, places and procrastination (well, I indulge a lot in the third). And when I am there in my secret hideout, I rejoice in being me. I bare myself to the depths of my emotions and idiosyncrasies. I laugh, cry, curse and mimic at my heart’s content. 

So what if your roommate is careless at time at drives you nuts by leaving her wet towel on the floor? Worry not. You have the magic room. Just lock yourself in there and do a disco number. You can also contort your facial muscles to some hilarious results. Did I hear you complain that your husband is a stickler for perfection? You know where you need to detoxify yourself. In you personal unclutter room. Hiss, snarl and let out a few curse words (harmless in all manner and intent). You would emerge calmer and with a softer heart to forgive your finicky hubby darling.

The list of “2-minute” miracles are abundant and proven, believe you me. I have often slouched on the seat, defeated by the day’s trials and my dear room has never let me down. 

So my lovely darlings and dudes identify your own “special room” and go celebrate your blemishes and insecurities. Just don’t marry them. Clear your thoughts, give your mane a toss and blow yourself a kiss. Or roll your eyes, if that pleases you. These are times of stress and this is the least you can do to nurture your peace of mind and focus on what you aspire.

As I wind up, would you care for a secret? Spiritual liberation is just one of the few surprises you may experience in your “Room”.